


The Death of All Things Dear

by ThePaintedScorpionDoll



Series: Scenes from a War-Forged Courtship [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Aeron Tabris, Angst, Angst and Feels, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Minor Character Death, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, depictions of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-23 05:59:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13781226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePaintedScorpionDoll/pseuds/ThePaintedScorpionDoll
Summary: A story is nothing without its beginning. This one is the tale of Aeron Tabris, and it begins with bloodshed.





	The Death of All Things Dear

**Author's Note:**

> Continued thanks to [CeleritasSagittae](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CeleritasSagittae) for being a second pair of eyes on the initial draft and providing some very useful notes!

 

> _And killing things is not so hard_  
>  _It's hurting that's the hardest part_  
>  _And when the wizard gets to me_  
>  _I'm asking for a smaller heart_
> 
> **\- Amanda Palmer, “Trout Heart Replica”**

* * *

 “Maker keep us. Maker protect us. Maker keep us. Maker protect us. Maker keep us…”

The sound of panicked, whispered praying starts to lead Aeron Tabris out of the dark depths of unconsciousness. Who is it? Who is doing that? Shianni? No. Shianni never prays aloud. Nessa, maybe? No. Not Nessa, either. Can’t be. Her family left the Alienage before the wedding. Where were they going? Highever? Lothering? No. They were riding out to…

Aeron squeezes her shut eyes tighter as an ache begins to build on the left side of her head. The cold firmness of the floor makes her hair stand on end. Where is she? What happened?

_What do you remember?_

Waking up to Shianni’s prodding. Her father’s face when she came down in the wedding dress that was once her mother’s. Soris laughing at the suggestion they could still make a break for it. The Grey Warden who seemed keenly interested in her sword skills and the hahren’s subtle look of disapproval.

_What else?_

Nelaros. That was his name wasn’t it? Her intended; the way he smiled at her, speaking kindly and with optimism of their marriage. The wedding itself—

And then the shems. The nobles. The one Shianni bottled in the head, who swore he would come back, along with two of his friends—

“Maker keep us. Maker protect us.”

One of them hit her on the head.

“Maker keep us. Maker protect us—”

“Stop it!” _There’s_ Shianni’s voice. “You’re driving me insane!”

The one praying drops her voice but does not stop. Aeron lets her eyes finally open, sitting up as the ache spreads and settles into a dull throb. The room itself is well-lit and built of stone reinforced with good cuts of wood. An empty table sits devoid of chairs and askew on one side of the room. Empty shelves line the walls either side of the door. This place hardly looks like a prison cell, but it sure as hell isn’t home, either. At least it appears they have not been separated.

“Shianni?”

Aeron’s voice sounds hoarse to her own ears. Shianni’s green eyes widen as she turns around. A sound of relief escapes her, alerting at least two of the other women, whom Aeron recognizes as Soris’s betrothed (Valora, wasn’t it?) and her bridesmaid.

“Thank the Maker, you’ve come to!” Shianni kneels down beside Aeron. “We were so worried…”

“Where are we?” Aeron counts a total of five, including herself and the woman still praying. “Who is that?”

“I think that’s Tormey’s daughter, but I—I don’t remember her name,” Shianni answers. “And where else would we be but Arl Kendells’s _glorious_ estate?”

“Lovely,” Aeron mutters, getting to her feet with her cousin’s help. “No chance we’re getting the grand tour, I take it?”

Nervous laughter bubbles out of Shianni. “I highly doubt it, cousin.”

“Have you two gone mad?” Valora’s bridesmaid glares at them accusingly. “They’ve locked us in here to wait until that _bastard_ is ‘ready for us—’”

Valora raises a hand. “Nesiara, please—”

“—and you two want to make _jokes_!”

“I know it’s difficult right now, but try to relax! Panicking will only keep us from getting out of here,” Aeron tells her.

Nesiara throws up her hands. “More jokes!”

“ _Not_ a joke,” Aeron answers firmly. “If you follow my lead and do as I say, we’ll all get out of here alive.”

“How do you plan to free us?” Valora cuts in, fear in her eyes. “The door is locked solid and we’re unarmed!”

“I’m aware of that. Regardless,” Aeron says, “there's still a chance—”

“Maker keep us. Maker protect us. Maker keep us. Maker protect us—” The woman rocks back and forth in her crouched position, head bowed and hands tightly clasped. “Maker keep us. Maker protect us. Maker keep us—”

“Great,” Shianni says. “Now this again.”

“Look,” Nesiara tells the group, “we’ll just…do what they want, go home and…and we’ll help each other try to forget this ever happened!”

“She’s right,” adds Valora. “It’ll be worse if we resist.”

“It’ll be worse for us if we don’t!” Shianni answers sharply.

“Shianni’s right,” Aeron tells them, and she feels her mother speaking through her. “If we give in, it just gives them permission to keep doing this to us. Think about the little ones back home! Do you want this for them? Their future?”

Silence. Only Shianni keeps her gaze on Aeron’s face, and maybe that's for the best, because the truth is that Aeron is just as scared as they are.

“You don’t let them touch a single hair on your head if you can help it,” she continues, still hearing her mother's voice instead of her own. “We have teeth. We have nails. _Kick them_ if you’re able to! Make them suffer as much as possible. _Do not_ go quietly.”

“You sound so sure of yourself,” Nesiara says. “Suppose we do what you say. Suppose we listen. What if they just decide to kill us for it instead? What if they just make examples of us?”

Aeron does not answer. The sound of motion and men’s laughter from beyond the door draws their attention before she even has to try. Aeron pushes herself to the front of the group, quietly trying to remember every disarming scenario her mother ever taught her.

“Okay, everybody stay calm.” She glances behind her. “If you see an opportunity to break free or steal a weapon for yourself, take it. Otherwise, don’t do anything until I say so, got it?”

The women nod. A group of five guards enter, all of them wearing the red armor marking them as part of the arl’s personal guard. One of them steps forward, grinning with about as much mirth as a hound set before a plate of meat.

“Hello, wenches! We’re your escorts to Lord Vaughan’s little party.” He mocks their attendance with a little bow in their direction. “If you would kindly and quietly come with us, we'll make sure you all arrive safe and sound.”

It all happens in slow motion, dreamlike. The young woman who was praying—Tormey’s daughter, whose name none of them know or recognize—rises from her crouching position on the floor. She takes unsteady steps past Aeron. Standing before the guards, she spreads her arms out wide—

“Stay away from us!”

And in the sudden aftermath, as she watches this girl gurgle and choke on the blood streaming from her slashed throat, Aeron wishes she could have said something to stop her. There are gasps and screams. One of the women grips Aeron’s arm. The blood pools on the floor, seeping into the soles of Aeron’s boots and the hem of her dress.

“You killed her!” It’s Valora, terrified. “That poor girl, you just— _you killed her_!”

The leader of the guards merely shrugs. “I suppose that’s what happens when you try teaching whores some respect.” He turns to his men, gesturing with the bloodied sword. “You grab the little flower cowering in the corner. Horace and I’ll take the homely bride and the drunk. You two, bind the last one. She’s the scrapper.”

“Don’t worry,” says one of the men at the back with his own smirk. “We’ll be perfect gentlemen.”

In comparison to the girl’s death, the second capture of the women happens fast. Valora and her bridesmaid go silently, passively. Shianni calls her cousin’s name. She clings to the door frame and manages to kick one of the guards in the shins, though it does little to keep them from their task. It takes two of them to drag her away, with the lead guard personally wrapping both arms around her waist and lifting her from the floor while the other holds her ankles. Over the stream of Shianni’s swearing, the guard yells something about the arl’s son favoring “feisty whores” that puts Aeron’s stomach in knots and makes the bile rise into her throat.

“Now,” says one of the two remaining guards, “you heard the captain. Be a good little wench or you’ll end up like your friend, there.”

Aeron looks down at the dead woman. More of her blood has soaked the bottom of her dress. They will pay for that death, and for anyone else they hurt, but first—

“Okay.” She nods slowly, gaze drawn to new movement in the hallway. “I’ll come quietly.”

The guard on the right chuckles. “That's a smart wench—”

“Uh, hello?”

The men turn to see what Aeron has already seen—Soris, standing in the doorway; sword in one hand, crossbow in the other, and a quiver at his back. The guards laugh.

“Look at this!” says one. “A little elfling with a stolen sword!”

“It’s not for him,” Aeron says.

As if on cue, Soris crouches and slides the sword handle-first across the floor—straight into Aeron’s hand. The guards glance at each other.

“Oh, sod.”

The fight is over before it ever really begins. Soris, it turns out, is handy with a crossbow, and the sword is surprisingly well made. As the guards lie groaning and bleeding from their wounds, Aeron looks down at her dress. If they have any hope of getting out of here, fighting will be inevitable; to succeed in any fight, maneuverability is key. As the dress is currently…

Careful not to cut her own skin, Aeron cuts a slit into both sides of the skirt, stopping mid-thigh. “Sorry, Mum.”

“I can’t believe they killed her.” Soris kneels down by the dead woman. “Poor Nola…”

“Did you know her?”

“A little. She worked in a secondhand shop near the marketplace.” He looks up at Aeron. “Are you all right? They didn’t hurt you, did they?”

“No, but they have Shianni and the other girls and I’m not leaving without them.” She holds up the sword, gestures to the crossbow. “Where did you—?”

“The Grey Warden, Duncan, gave Nelaros and me his sword and crossbow, but that’s all we have.”

Aeron looks at her cousin in disbelief. “ _Nelaros_ came with you?”

“Aeron, he’s the reason we’re here!” Soris tells her. “He lost it against those who just wanted to ‘hope for the best.’ Duncan overheard him, offered use of his weapons… I-I didn’t know what to do.”

She claps a hand to his shoulder. “You’re here now, Soris. That’s what counts.”

Soris gives her a thin smile. “I couldn’t let him go alone. Nelaros is still guarding the end of the hall. Let’s figure this out with him.”

“Agreed.”

They move quickly, keeping their steps light. Most of the rooms they enter are blissfully empty of other people. In the kitchen, they avoid a fight with the arl’s cook, thanks to help from the elvhen servant who smashes him across the back of the head with a pot.

“Did you see a group of women brought by here?” asks Soris.

“Led by a group of guards? You’ll have to make your way to the other end of the palace if you're trying to reach them,” the servant says. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I'm going to get out of here before the storm hits.”

“Smart decision,” Aeron mutters to herself.

The halls of the arl’s estate feel like a maze if stone and carpet. Through a set of double doors, they wind up in the wide expanse of the dining hall. Two shems take notice and rise from their benches, the larger one glaring harder at them than the other.

“Where did you get a weapon, elf?”

“Uh-oh.” Soris glances to Aeron. “What do we do?”

“Get ready to cover me,” she tells him.

“You better talk quick, scum!” The men begin their approach. “Where did you get those weapons?”

“It’s not obvious?” Aeron spins the sword in her hand. “Your mum gave ‘em to me. ‘Token of affection,’ she said. Quite the sweetie—”

They charge in her direction with swords drawn. Aeron meets the large brute halfway, sword clashing with his.

“You maggots are gonna die slowly,” he growls in her face.

“You really think so?” Aeron presses her attack. “You’re _really sure_ about that?”

A cry goes up from a different part of the dining hall, proof of Soris successfully felling the other shem with a well-aimed bolt. It offers a moment of distraction that Aeron takes to disarm her foe. He falls to his knees, large hands clawing for her dress even as she swings the blade across his neck.

“Aeron—” Soris runs up. “Are you—?”

“Let's keep moving.” She takes in a deep breath. “I’m fine.”

They find trinkets and useless baubles in some of the other rooms. In rooms where they find coinage, Aeron pilfers it all without guilt, pushing the spoils into her cousin’s hands and pockets. (They can spread the wealth among the alienage later, she assures him. If they have to suffer, they may as well make the ordeal benefit as many of their people as possible.) In another room, Aeron finds a dagger still in its scabbard and calls Soris over.

“Take this,” she says. “You might need it if—”

“What—?”

“—jam it into their neck, or in their ribs, or—”

“Aeron, no, I can't—”

 _“Soris—”_ And again, Aeron feels her mother speaking through her, even as she curls his fingers around the dagger. “Hopefully, you won't have to use it.”

More rooms; some empty, others with off-duty soldiers just as eager to earn their pay trying to put down two elves. And yet still no sign of Nelaros…

“When you said ‘end of the hall,’ I was expecting we’d find him a lot sooner than this,” Aeron says as they move through the current hallway.

“He was! He was supposed to be.” Soris sounds nervous. “You don’t think he—”

“Sh—!”

Voices and sounds of a struggle draw them towards a door to their immediate left. Aeron signals for Soris to load a bolt into his bow. She slips her hand around the handle, leans on the door, pushes it open—

They enter just in time to see Nelaros collapse to the floor with sword in hand. Ahead of them, now towering over Nelaros as he whimpers in pain, is the guard captain from earlier; laughing with two of his subordinates. Aeron tightens her grip on the sword handle.

 _“Bastards!”_ The word is heavy with her anger. “One dead elf isn’t enough for you?”

The captain looks up and points with his bloodied sword. “See there? What’d I tell you? Elves run in packs, like rodents.”

“Nelaros—” Soris sounds horrified beside her. “Aeron, they killed Nelaros—”

“And here I thought he’d squeal like a stuck pig.” The guard captain spits on the fallen man. His  cold gaze locks with Aeron’s. “Let’s see what sounds you two make.”

It all goes by in a blur of anger. Aeron is aware of her body moving in combat. She hears yelling, swearing—some of it in her own voice. She is aware of her sword sliding through something _soft_ ; the heavy iron smell and heat of fresh blood on her clothes, her skin. Panicked screaming fills her ears.

_Not Soris. Not important._

But then someone grabs Aeron by her hair and _pulls_. The air rushes from her lungs as her back collides with stone. A hand clamps around her throat. A face shows triumph as it flashes into view—

“Time to die, little elf!”

—but then triumph quickly changes to pain. There is screaming, harsh and loud. A new rush of air fills Aeron’s lungs and she finds strength enough to shove her would-be executioner away. It takes her a moment to realize it is the guard captain, now shouting and cursing every elf-related slur imaginable as he rolls about on the floor. There are bolts in the back of his knee, his shoulder; he is trying pitifully to reach for them. Aeron kicks his sword away. She looks down at him a moment.

“Soris?” Aeron calls.

“H—here,” Soris answers breathlessly.

“The other guards?” she asks.

After a delay, he says, “Dead. T—two of them, at least—”

The guard captain starts to laugh. “You think—you two think you’ll get away with this? You won’t get off the property alive! Especially you, fucking knife-eared cunt.” He spits in Aeron’s direction. “M-Maker willing, we’ll all have a turn on you.”

Soris reaches for a bolt from his dwindling supply until Aeron holds up her hand. She is calm inside—unnaturally so, she knows—but there is also a flash of satisfaction when she brings her foot down against the guard’s injured knee. How he _howls_ in pain! The _filth_ inherent in the things he calls her! Aeron lifts her foot as he scrambles to reach for her ankle and brings it down more forcefully on his left hand, grinding the heel of her boot into his fingers.

“That’s not the sound I was expecting.” Aeron moves her foot off his hand. She bends down close enough to see the rage and fear building in his eyes. “Let's see if you squeal.”

She straightens up far enough to jam the blade into his throat. The guard captain gurgles and chokes, he spits blood and twitches unnaturally, but he dies mostly in silence.

“Aeron?” Soris’s voice is small, soft.

Aeron wrenches the sword free from the guard’s neck. She checks the blade. “We need to keep moving—”

Soft coughing sounds make her turn around. Where is that coming from? Who else is left?

“Nelaros!” Soris makes a move towards him first, setting down the crossbow as he kneels on the floor before cradling the injured man in his arms. “Hey—hey, d-don’t try to move too much—”

Aeron lowers her sword. Her steps feel heavier, slower. As she sinks down beside them, she takes in more details. A fine sheen of cold sweat covers Nelaros’s skin. The wound is on his lower right side, judging by the shaking hand Nelaros has pressed against it. Is that how he’s survived so far? Maybe they’ll all make it home yet.

 _Except that we won’t,_ a voice inside of Aeron’s whispers. He _won’t, anyway. The blood is too dark—_

Aeron shuts out the voice as she gently moves Nelaros’s hand, apologizing when he whimpers. “Try to hold still.”

The shirt sticks to his skin from the amount of blood. What she finds underneath only makes her stomach sink. The wound is worse than expected—too deep, with bits of torn fabric caught inside the edges. Even if Nelaros had the strength to survive returning home—

“Aeron?” Soris’s voice still sounds small.

“It’s… I think it’s his liver, Soris.” Aeron puts her hands in her lap. “H-he, uh…he won't…”

She shakes her head, unable to look at either of them. Soris murmurs what sounds like an apology. Something brushes gently against Aeron’s fingers—Nelaros, reaching for her with his bloodied hand. His grip is weak; his fingers slick and sticky from the blood already beginning to dry.

“Y-you’re safe—” Nelaros coughs, pain etching across his face. His grip briefly tightens as he gasps for air. A soft moan escapes him as he settles. “Maker be praised…”

“Why did you come?”

Aeron isn’t sure why she asks. She barely registers the words leaving her mouth. But Nelaros… Where, in the midst of his _dying_ , does he find the strength to _smile_ at her?

“It’s simple.” His brown eyes shine as he looks at her. “You’re my wife. Wh-what man would I be…if…?”

“Nelaros?” Soris shakes him gently. “Hey! Nelaros! Stay with us—!”

But his hold on Aeron’s hand weakens. The pain on Nelaros’s face melts into something calmer. He is slipping from them, fast, and something inside of her _hurts_ for the potential of what might have been.

“Nelaros?”

“I think—I think he's gone,” Soris says quietly. “I felt him just—i-it’s like he just _relaxed_ …?”

Aeron leans forward and holds the back of her hand close to Nelaros’s mouth and nose. No air brushes against her skin. She presses two fingers to the pulse at his neck. Nothing. He’s gone. Dead. Murdered.

 _I’m so sorry, Nelaros._ She brushes his hair back from his forehead and presses a kiss to cooling skin. _It might not have been so bad, after all, being your wife._

“Aeron?” Soris’s voice is full of uncertainty. “What now?”

“We get moving.” Aeron pulls the wedding band from around Nelaros’s finger and adds it to her own. “We find Shianni and the others, we deal with the arl’s son; we make sure these deaths weren’t in vain, understand me?”

Soris nods. “I'll follow your lead.”

“Then let's go.”

More hallways of stone and carpet, more twists and turns in endless hallways. How do shems _live_ like this? How do they possibly navigate from room to room without a map? They should grab a torch, do the shems a favor and set fire to it all on their way out…

“Aeron, wait—” Soris touches her shoulder as they enter what appears to be someone's study. “Do you hear that? Up ahead—”

Laughter in men's voices. One of them yells about more wine. Another one is…cheering? Barely audible over all that is a woman's voice, small and scared. All of this comes from behind a large door that probably should have been guarded. Vaughan must truly think himself untouchable!

Fresh anger begins to burn through the unnatural calm from earlier. Aeron grips tighter to the handle of the sword. Before they leave here, she _will_ show him the error of his thinking.

“Be ready to cover me,” Aeron says.

With an assured nod, Soris lodges another bolt into his crossbow. They approach the door cautiously. The sounds grow louder, more raucous. Aeron presses herself against the door, wraps her fingers around the handle…

She takes a steadying breath and pushes her way inside. The laughter dies down. The sounds of fear and pain become louder as a result. As they push their way further in, they see a woman on the center table, and Aeron feels her stomach _twist_ on itself.

“Shianni—”

Her face bleeds and bears the start of bruises, her clothing is torn to rags; but it is unmistakably their cousin lying exposed on the table in the center of the room, her wrists held down by the man still fixed between her legs. The twist in Aeron’s stomach tightens. The anger burns hotter. She knows that face. Even twisted in stolen pleasure, she has no trouble recognizing Vaughan Kendell.

Soris’s horrified voice is at Aeron’s ear. “W-what do we do?”

“Shoot him,” she answers bluntly.

“No, no! Now, now…l-let’s not be so ha—hasty—” With an animal’s grunt, Vaugh withdraws. He runs a hand through his hair, tries to stuff himself back into his trousers. “You’ve come all this way, even brought more guests—though I, ah…don’t recall inviting more men.”

“Here,” says one of the two other men in the room, “shall we see them out for you?”

“Lay a finger on me and you’ll lose your whole hand,” Aeron warns.

“Aw, she’s confident.” The second man grins. “We’ll make short work of them, won’t we?”

“That’s right,” answers the first, advancing.

“Come now, stop it, both of you! It would serve you to be a little more observant. Look—” Vaughan gestures to where Aeron and Soris stand. “Look at them. They’re both covered with enough blood to fill a tub! What do you think that means?”

“It means you’re letting my cousin and our neighbors go, and I’ll pretend to consider not killing you,” Aeron tells him.

To her shock, the arl’s son actually _laughs_. He holds up his hands as he steps around the table. “As I’ve said before, let’s not be too hasty here. Surely we can talk this over—”

Aeron lifts her sword in his direction. “I don’t think so.”

“Hear me out before you reject me outright,” Vaughan tells her. “Now, here’s our situation. You are skilled, obviously. We fight here, perhaps you even manage to kill us… My father won’t let that go. Your pigsty of an alienage will be burned to the ground.

“ _Or_ …or you turn and walk away.” Vaughan goes to a nearby table and pulls out a small coin purse. “I’ll give you forty sovereigns. _Each._ You take the money; you leave Denerim— _tonight_ —with no repercussions.”

Aeron does not lower her sword. “Just like that.”

“You can go wherever you like.”

“What about the women?” asks Soris.

“Ah. Yes. The women.” Vaughan frowns and shrugs like he cannot negotiate the point. “The women stay. They’ll go home tomorrow, slightly worse for wear, but what will that matter to you? You’ll both be long gone.

“That’s the deal.” He shakes the bag of coins in their direction. “Take it or leave it.”

 _“Fuck you.”_ Aeron spits back immediately. “I'm not leaving without those women. Soris, you even _step towards_ that money and I swear on their idiot Maker, I will kill you first!”

Vaughan looks at Soris with a smirk. “Do you always do what she tells you?”

Silence. Soris aims his crossbow and fires. The bolt lands in the thigh of the noble on the left. The fight is on, then. Aeron makes a direct line for Vaughan. He puts a chair between them as he backs up. She steps up, steps over; her landing is uneasy, but she stays upright and continues her pursuit. Left alive, he might escape justice. As long as he doesn't leave this room—

“Now!” Vaughan produces a sword, taken from his injured friend. “Let's see just how skilled the little rabbit really is, shall we?”

“Oh, you’ll know,” Aeron answers through gritted teeth.

The limited space of the room makes combat difficult. Aeron fights for every bit of ground she can take and any opening she can make. More than once, it puts her own safety at risk. It allows Vaughan to cut a thin line into her left arm, and he very nearly cuts another across her midsection. He smirks again, as if he has already won their fight.

He will not win this. He _will not_ get away with what he’s done!

Aeron redoubles her efforts. She presses the attack harder, practically stepping on Vaughan’s toes. Her breath comes in heavy puffs—in grunts or growls, almost. Vaughan’s face colors with exertion. His eyes begin to show hints of uncertainty—

And then…

Maybe his leg catches on the end of the table. Maybe his foot trips over a fallen chalice. The reason doesn’t matter. The important thing is the result; that Vaughan pitches backward, stumbling, and collides against the end of one of the room’s several beds. He lands halfway on the mattress, sword clattering on the floor as it falls from his hand.

Aeron ensures Vaughan never gets back up to retrieve it.

“Good fucking riddance.” She spits on Vaughan’s corpse and rises. “Soris—?”

“Here—” The shake in his voice makes Aeron turn in alarm. Soris approaches with blood on his hands and forearms. “I had to—you were right about—I—”

He turns and Aeron follows his gaze to where one of Vaughan’s former lackeys lies, dagger in his neck. Aeron dares to breathe a little in relief.

“Okay. Okay, you did good. You did the right thing—”

“Did we? I mean—” Soris looks around. “They’re all _dead_.”

“Soris, it was either you or him. You did what you had to do to survive, understand me?” Aeron rests her hands on her cousin’s shoulders. “Hey. Are you still with me here? Soris?”

“Of—of course.” Soris nods, but he still looks shaken. Who wouldn't be? “I-I’ll go free the other women. You help Shianni.”

“Shianni…” Aeron’s mind shifts focus. Her heart jumps into her throat when she sees the table is absent. “Shianni—!”

“Here—”

“Shi?” She finds her cousin huddled underneath the table, fear and pain on her battered face. “It's okay. It's just me—”

“Don’t leave me here alone.”

“I’m not. I’m not leaving you, I promise—”

“Take me home.” Shianni starts to cry. “Please just…just take me home.”

“I am. We’re going home right now, all of us. Just—just wait here—” Aeron goes to one of the several beds in the room (trying to ignore the need for so many) and pulls the topmost blanket from the mattress. “Come on, Shi. Come this way—here—give me your hand…”

Shianni stands somewhat uneasily. As she wraps the trembling woman in the blanket, Aeron takes stock of her cousins injuries. Shianni’s wrists are red from where Vaughan gripped them. There are scratches and bruises on her body in the shape of fingers and handprints. Her lower lip shows swelling and there is evidence she was slapped along the right side of her face. Streaks of blood color the inside of her thighs.

“There’s so much blood. It’s—” Shianni shuts her eyes and shakes her head. “It’s everywhere—!“

“Don't look at it. You don't have to…” Aeron stops, suddenly too aware of how much blood stains her own clothes, her body. “We’re leaving soon, Shianni, I promise.”

Soris emerges with Valora and her bridesmaid. Valora approaches, worry on her face, and reaches out a hand. Shianni pulls herself closer to Aeron’s side.

“Is she alright?” Valora lowers her hand.

Aeron hesitates, feeling the first real pang of guilt in the hollow space left by her anger. She wraps her arms around Shianni. “I hope she will be.”

“She will be,” Valora echoes with a nod. “Shianni’s strong.”

“You killed them…didn’t you? Aeron—” Shianni looks up at her cousin, green eyes full of tears. “You killed them all.”

Aeron only nods. She presses a kiss into her cousin’s hair. “Like dogs, Shi.”

“Good.” Shianni sniffles. _“Good.”_

* * *

The walk home is as silent and somber as a funeral procession. Aeron leads, one arm still around Shianni’s shoulders, with Valora and Nesiara following while Soris takes up guarding their backs. None of them have any idea what to expect. It isn't as if an elf murdering the arl’s son is a regular occurrence, even if he happened to deserve it.

Valendrian is waiting for them at the gate. The Grey Warden—Duncan, his name was?—is with him, as well. He rushes forward as they pass through, stopping short when Shianni pulls herself against Aeron again.

“You’ve returned! Has Shianni been hurt?” As his eyes move over their faces, Aeron wonders if the hahren’s shock is from the blood on her clothes or the fact so many of them still live. “Where is Tormey’s daughter, Nola?”

“Sh-she didn’t make it. She resisted and…” Valora’s voice begins to break.

“They killed her,” Shianni finishes in a dull voice. “Sliced her throat like a common dog.”

“Nelaros, too,” Soris adds. “The guards killed him.”

Aeron says nothing, but she can feel the hahren’s eyes on her.

“Would you ladies take Shianni home, send for the healer?” he asks. “She needs to begin resting.”

Shianni clings tightly to Aeron. “I’m not going! I don't want to be alone.”

“You won't be alone,” Valora promises. “I'll stay with you.”

“It’ll be okay, Shi.” Aeron strokes her hair. “I will be along soon, okay?”

Shianni looks up, green eyes still wet with tears. “Promise?”

Aeron nods. “I promise. I just have to talk with the hahren first. He has to know what happened.”

Shianni still looks reluctant to leave, but she takes the arm Valora offers. Aeron watches them go. She gives a small nod when her cousin glances behind her. Only a little while. That's all this will take.

“Now tell me,” Valendrian says, his tone more serious, “what happened?”

“I refused to wait for rescue I didn’t—that _I knew_ wouldn't come,” Aeron answers. “If not for Nelaros and Soris…” She looks at the Grey Warden as if just remembering his presence. “Thank you, by the way, for your help. I hope you weren't expecting that sword back.”

“What about the arl’s son?” asks Valendrian before Duncan can respond.

“Dead,” Aeron answers simply. “As are a number of his guards who tried to stop us.”

“The garrison could well be on their way here, then.” Duncan looks at her sympathetically. “I’m afraid you both have little time.”

Aeron surprises herself by shrugging. “I only expected as much. But I wouldn’t worry too much about Soris—”

“Wait, what’re you suggesting? That we let you get arrested?” Soris asks.

“Soris, listen to me—”

“No, I’m as much to blame for this as you are—if not more!” He cries. “If something happens to you now—”

The sound of armor and heavy footsteps draws their attention to the gate. A group of shems in the king’s armor come marching down, all of them hard-faced. Aeron squares her shoulders and braces herself. Beside her, Soris utters a short prayer.

The leader steps forward. “I seek Valendrian, elder and administrator of the Alienage!”

Valendrian raises a hand. “Here, Captain. I take it you have come in response to today’s disruptions?”

“Don’t play ignorant with me, elder. You will not prevent justice from being done!” The guard captain regains his composure. “The arl’s son lies dead in a river of blood that runs through the entire palace. I need names, Elder, and I need them now!”

Aeron steps forward. “You only need one.”

Soris tries to step beside her. “Aeron, wait—!”

“I did it,” she says, turning back to the city guard. “I killed the arl’s son.”

The captain stares her up and down, disbelief on his lined face. “You expect me to believe one woman did all that—and an _elf_ , besides?” His gaze lands on Soris. “Who are you protecting, girl?”

Aeron stares hard into the guard’s face. “If you know the arl’s son is dead, it must mean you’ve seen his body.”

“And?”

“It means you know he died even less of a man than he was while he lived.”

The captain’s eyes briefly widen. His subordinates poorly hide their uncomfortable shuffling and glances. They fall still when the captain again regains his composure and turns to briefly glare at them.

“Well, I suppose that seals it, then, doesn't it?” He steps forward, ready to take Aeron by the arm. “You save many by coming forward. I don’t envy your fate, girl, but I do applaud your courage.

“This elf will wait in the dungeons until the arl returns,” the captain declares as he seizes hold of her. “The rest of you, back to your homes!”

“Aeron—” Soris starts.

“Make sure Shianni has every chance she can to get better. And tell my da—” Aeron swallows. “Just, uh, just tell him—”

“Captain, a word if you please.” It’s the Grey Warden, stepping forward with a look of keen interest on his face. “Just a brief moment—”

The captain grumbles. “What is it Grey Warden? The situation is well under control, as you can see.”

“Be that as it may,” Duncan answers, “I invoke the Grey Warden’s Rite of Conscription. I remove this woman into my custody.”

Aeron blinks. Confusion works its way into the hollow of her chest. “You what?”

“Son of a tied-down—” The guard releases her with a half-shove. “Very well; I cannot challenge your rights, but I’ll ask one thing. Get this elf out of the city. _Today._ ”

Duncan merely nods. “Of course.” As the guards leave, the Grey Warden approaches Aeron. “It would seem you’re with me now. Change your clothes, pack a small bag—”

“Wait a moment.” Aeron shakes her head. “What’re you—?”

“As soon as you’ve said your goodbyes, meet me back at the gate.” Duncan turns and begins to walk away. “We’ll leave immediately!”

“ _Leave?_ Leave to _where?_ What did you—hey—!” Aeron stalks after him. “Answer me!”

“You and I do not have much time for a proper explanation,” he answers, rounding on a heel. “Suffice it to say, there are greater dangers on the horizon that will affect more than just your people.”

“Dangers? What kind of—?”

“If there is time, I will explain on the way, but you're going to have to settle with understanding that I came seeking to recruit a Grey Warden—” Duncan looks at her with a touch more kindness. “—and I found one. That it saved your life in the process is something of a fortunate coincidence.

“Now please,” he tells her, “gather your things so we can leave. Your life here as you knew it is over.”

Aeron lets him walk away then, no retort good enough to counter him. _Over._ Her life here, in the only place she has never known, is _over_. Even if she could refuse, which she doubts from the way the Grey Warden spoke, what other options are there for her?

Death. Imprisonment, perhaps, or even hard labor, if the arl has enough heart to be disgusted with his son.

_“Your life here as you know it is over.”_

Aeron stalls when she sees her father sitting at the table when she returns home. Her breath catches painfully in her chest. Again, her stomach twists into knots. Aeron bows her head. How can she even look at him, in the wake of what she’s done?

“Is it true?” Cyrion’s voice is steady, clear. “What Shianni said… Is any of it true, Aeron?”

“Where is she?” Her voice shakes. She forces herself to let go of the doorframe and walk forward. “Did the healer come?”

“They’re upstairs.” Cyrion takes a deep breath. “Aeron. Tell me. Is it true? Did you—?”

“I did.” Aeron looks up as her vision begins to blur with tears that run hot down her face. “Da…I-I did, and now… Now I—th-they’re saying I have to go—”

_“Your life here is over.”_

It is sinking in much too fast, much too heavily. Aeron is grateful when she hears her father rise and cross to embrace her. He says something she cannot understand.

“I don't want to go, Da,” she sobs. “I can't—I can't leave you behind—”

“Shh. Strength now, Aeron. You have to find what strength you can and use it.” Cyrion wipes her tears.

“But I…” She shakes her head. She doesn't feel strong. Not now. “I don't even know where I'm going and I-I…I might not ever come back—”

“Aeron? Is—is that—? Aeron, are you home?”

They both look up as they hear Shianni’s voice. Another pang of guilt fills Aeron’s chest. What will they tell her? How will she fare?

“She needs me,” Aeron says quietly. “She begged me not to leave her, and I…”

“We’ll all do our best to take care of her,” Cyrion says gently. He looks at his daughter sadly. “How much time do you have left?”

Not enough. Nowhere nearly enough. In her father’s room, Aeron washes as much of the blood as she feels she can get out of her skin. Her head retains some of the ache from the blow she received. Her muscles are sore from all the fighting. The wounds Vaughan left on her are—either by miracle or sheer dumb luck—shallow enough to keep her from worrying about infection. Aeron dresses in her sturdiest clothes. She swiftly binds her hair in one long braid.

A knock at the door reveals her father, holding a small traveler's bag packed fat-full; his expression as solemn as over. Silently, he sets the bag down on the bed before going to the little closet on the other side of the room. From an upper shelf, Cyrion pulls down a brown box.

“I want you to take these with you, instead of your old boots.” He sets the box on the bed. “They were… They belonged to your mother, but with the traveling you're about to do, you should have them.”

Aeron opens the box and breathes in the scent of leather. “Her boots…”

“Hopefully, they’ll serve you just as well as they did her,” he adds.

She is surprised by how they fit, almost as if they were made for her own feet instead of her mother’s. Somehow, it feels like that shouldn’t be the case.

“Your mother would be proud of you,” Cyrion says to break the silence that follows.

Aeron looks up at him. “Do you really believe that? Look what I've done—”

“You protected your family. You rescued those other girls. Aeron, you did what no one else in the Alienage was prepared to do, because they were too afraid.”

“I was, too! And Nelaros…” She looks at the two rings still on her finger. “Nelaros was brave, and it still got him killed.”

“Yes—” Her father draws in another of those deep breaths. “—and you’re still alive. You survived this, Aeron, and you will survive what comes next—whatever it is and wherever it takes you—and hopefully, if the Maker is kind, you will come home.”

Aeron bites back the urge to say anything. Instead, she collects the traveler's bag and rises. No sense in continuing to delay the inevitable.

“Aeron?”

Shianni’s voice floats from the bedroom they shared. Aeron can see her through the doorway; half-struggling against Valora’s attempts to keep her calm and lying on the bed so the healer can continue their work.

_You should go now, while she's distracted—_

The bag lands with a  heavy _thump_ in the doorway. Aeron steels herself and steps inside. Valora looks at her before silently moving back to let her sit. Shianni begins to relax, taking her cousin's hand.

“You’re here!”

“Yeah. I'm here, Shi.” Aeron tries to swallow back the rising guilt. “I-I can't…I can't stay, though.”

The relief on Shianni’s face begins to dissolve. “What?”

“I have t—I have to go, Shianni.” Why did Aeron think this was a good idea? “It’s just for a little while—”

“No—”

“—just until it's safe—until it's safe for me to come back, okay?” Aeron gives Shianni’s hand a gentle squeeze. “Soris and Da will take good care of you, and Valora, too—”

Valora nods quickly. “Of course.”

“But where…wh-where are you going? Aeron—” Tears begin pooling in Shianni’s eyes. “Just tell me that. Tell me _where_!”

Aeron shakes her head, trying to hold back her own tears. “I can't.”

Shianni begins to cry. _“Wh-why not?!”_

Aeron can only shake her head again, tears sliding down her own face. “I can’t. I can’t tell you, Shianni.”

_Because I honestly have no idea._

A heavy knock from downstairs keeps startles everyone in the room. Perhaps the Grey Warden grew tired of waiting at the gate? Aeron shakes her head again. She leans forward and presses a kiss to Shianni’s forehead.

“I'll write to you when I can, okay?”

“Don't go.”

But Aeron is on her feet, her hand slipping out of Shianni’s. The traveler's bag feels heavier on her shoulders than when she put it down. Her cousin’s tearful pleas follow her out of the room, into the hallway, down the stairs…

Duncan stands just inside the doorway, arms crossed as he speaks quietly with her father. The conversation ends and both men look at Aeron as she reaches the bottom step.

“Your cousin told me where to find you,” explains the Grey Warden. “I am…pleased to find that you are, in fact, here.”

Aeron does not meet his gaze. “Where else would I go?”

“Are you finally ready to leave?”

No. Of course not. They all know that.

Cyrion slips an arm around her shoulders “This is my daughter you take with you, Grey Warden. My only one. Please remember that.”

“I am aware.” Duncan gives him a firm nod. He gestures for Aeron to follow. “Come. We really can't delay any further.”

Aeron watches him go, waiting until he is completely outside. No breath feels deep enough to steady her. No amount of inner strength or support feels enough.

And yet, it _has_ to be. Somehow…

“Okay.”

Aeron Tabris does not say goodbye. She straightens her back, yes, and squares her shoulders; she forces down that last temptation to cry. She hugs her father and kisses his cheek, tells him that she loves him—

And then, with measured steps, Aeron Tabris walks out of her home for what certainly feels like the last time.

* * *

 


End file.
